Towering Concerns
by Mitya Shostak
Summary: A human OC with plenty of problems of his own compares his lot in life to that of a mutant.


This story is in the perspective of Philip Asher, a human character of mine that was not initially involved in the Evo universe. He already has a story of his own ( accessible here: . And if that link doesn't work, it's at my fictionpress account). It is strongly suggested that you read that first. In fact, this will make no sense if you don't read that first, even though this is Evo and that's just regular world.  
So yes, Phil. And Forge. Blame Olhado.  


* * *

So, I think I'm fine with just being crazy. There are worse things; it's really not all that bad. I could be really insane and making problems and bothering people, which I'm definitely not. I'm just a little bit crazy, for all practical purposes, and the only person it effects is me.  
And it didn't even do that for a long time. Nobody told me I was crazy, and I had no internal indication that I was crazy, so for all practical purposes _then_, I might as well have not been crazy at all. I would have done just as well to not find out, but when my best friends died so badly on September 11th, I felt I had to go to a shrink for that. Granted, I like Judith as a person, and I'm not mad at her, or at least not much, but I wish she'd just have stuck to helping my grief, because it's the same regardless of the substance of my loss. But no, she had to go further, she had to tell me that Winifred and Wilhelmina weren't actually people, and that it was not a sane thing that I was with the Twin Towers.  
I don't care if they were real people or towers, or how crazy that might make me. They were my friends regardless, and I still miss them.  
But Judith said that it was not normal, and it was a state of mind that needed to be fixed before I got into another such relationship. That is, before I spoke to any more buildings. Well, how was I to know that they were buildings? I saw people, and they were nice people. If I'd seen towers, I wouldn't have spoken with them (though I'm not the best at speaking with people, either).  
In order to fix it, Judith took me to Ground Zero. I was afraid to go. I was afraid that I would see towers even though they were gone, and I hoped I would see people to prove that they weren't towers after all, but Judith was absolutely certain that they were towers, so I was also afraid to see people. But it wasn't any of that when we got there. I guess that could be a relief, but it's not relieving to see huge piles of torn aluminum, battered concrete, and all means of dust, or to smell whatever burned in there. I think I would be more crazy if I found that relieving.  
But there weren't towers, and there weren't people, so that was ok at least. Judith had me tell her exactly what I saw, what I'd seen before, and how I felt right then. I've never been good at communicating with anybody, and it's harder to communicate about a disaster zone or a place where a loved one died, or a disaster zone that _is_ the dead loved one. I guess I conveyed enough for Judith at the time being, and so she left, but since I was there I didn't feel proper in leaving yet.  
I didn't talk to the rubble; I didn't even try. That was inanimate stuff. I guess I was talking to myself, though, because someone was able to overhear. He was a young man of American Indian descent, with a fashion sense and haircut from the 1970s. At first I was a bit nervous, but I quickly became certain that he wasn't a building—all of the ones that I'd known to be around Winifred and Wilhelmina remained visibly buildings (save, of course, for the other five World Trade Center buildings, which appeared as dust), and it occurred to me that my friends had never really moved, so if they really were buildings, other buildings wouldn't move either.  
Anyway, this man had been working on the cleanup effort, and apparently he couldn't help but overhear my talking with Judith and to myself, and he was sorry about that. He told me to call him Forge, and he sounded like he was out of the 70s, too. I think I was polite enough, though he definitely was doing most of the talking. Apparently, he'd been sent to Manhattan from Bayville, Massachusetts to help clean up because he had some sort of special talent for building stuff to help with things like that. He thought that it was pretty that he'd maybe run into another similar talent.  
At first I had no idea what Forge was talking about, but he offered visual explanation—he thrust his right arm toward me, but it quickly ceased to be an arm and instead was a metal appendage, well-equipped with all manners of little tools. It was an alarming revelation, but it was not scary in comparison to watching Winifred and Wilhelmina die in so much smoke and fire several months ago.  
I already knew about mutants from reading the news. I never thought much of it—they were, for every detail I could see, just ordinary people. I'd be no better or worse speaking to a mutant than to anybody else. And unless one of them did something bad to me or a friend, none were evil. Forge just startled me with his arm-thing, and with his interpretation of my condition.  
I told Forge that I wasn't talented in that way, but he wasn't so sure. I said I didn't know that they were buildings, or if the people with whom I spoke really truly were the Towers, and that talking to buildings would be pretty useless as a _power_ (regardless of friendships). Forge countered that pretty well—he was helping clean up by building safety and removal mechanisms, another mutant from Pittsburgh could manipulate steel (but not aluminum) debris to make it more manageable, and I could talk to the buildings around the main disaster site to help the city itself heal. I suppose that would be a plausible usage if I actually had a power. I repeated, though, that my being friends with the Twin Towers had nothing to do with a mutation, but Forge would not be swayed. In order to try convincing him, I offered a halfhearted greeting to 1 World Financial Center, which did not, fortunately, respond. On that note, I took my leave.  
I really have nothing against mutants. For all of Forge's misassumptions, I liked him and we kept in touch (perhaps his mechanical arm had something to do with it—it was more like architecture than most people are), but I wouldn't want to be a mutant myself. I'd be useless with any sort of power other than my position to accept or reject literary manuscripts. More importantly, though, who would possibly want to be a part of a discriminated minority? I personally have no problem with mutants, but most other people do, and they're quick to be hateful and mean and stupid about it. They're all completely wrong to be that way, but it's a fact that they are. I feel sorry for Forge and his friends and allies for it, but I'm so very glad that it can't be directed at me. I may be crazy, but that's in a benign way, and benign crazy people are merely pitied. I don't want that attention in any form, but it's far better to get pity than hate.  
And though I'd rather be crazy, I still question how much I actually am. I don't care if my friends were towers, they were my friends, and it's normal to care about your friends. People that aren't acquaintances or friends would have no reason to think that I wasn't normal, particularly since I can't talk to Winifred and Wilhelmina anymore. People that do know me—well, Judith says I'm crazy, but I guess it's her job to say so—wouldn't say it, and good friends wouldn't care. Forge still thinks I'm a mutant and still tries to get me to talk to more buildings, but he's never once called me crazy. Nor has the nice gentleman with whom I've been conversing recently near the corner of 34th Street and 5th Avenue.


End file.
